


i know that what i am is not who i should be

by ephemeraljuly



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, but these two and their soft gazes ......., i haven't written fanfic in years, i wanted to write this since last week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeraljuly/pseuds/ephemeraljuly
Summary: Sansa asks for something only Theon can give her.





	i know that what i am is not who i should be

 

He sloughed a sigh, aggravating Sansa more than she already felt. His increasingly quiet demeanor stoked a pained sense of frustration in her gut.

“Theon,” she tried again. Her emotion rode high her cheeks, shining in her clear green eyes. Behind closed doors, Sansa didn’t _have_ to concern herself with wearing a frosty Northerner facade to keep up appearances, especially not with him. He had seen her at her most vulnerable, ripped free of the trappings of what it meant to be a proper lady, reduced to a trembling woman made of flesh and bone. “I know what I want. I want you.”

“Sansa, I...I can’t...” he rasped. Theon exhaled harshly. The fact remained that he had no business being in this room, alone with her, and she was a highborne lady. There were better men, men far more fitting and noble in their intentions and titles she could seek out. Theon’s lips twitched into a compressed line, gravelly tone raw with sincerity. “You deserve someone more worthy.”

A pang of rejection didn’t even strike as she dismissed this notion entirely and completely. “I’ve never _been_ with anyone more worthy,” she stated firmly. Sansa dropped her residual dignity, and drove her statement home as she angled his face toward hers with a press of her hands, in a slow, soft gesture. She feared that she risked pushing him further away by touching him like this, but he didn't move. Theon's slate-blue gaze only slanted as she continued, “All I've known is what it's like to be humiliated and in pain... I don’t want to die without knowing what it’s like to feel the touch of a man who makes me feel _safe_. I trust you with this, Theon. _Only_ you.”

Posture grown rigid and tense, Theon said nothing for a heartbeat, staring down with a fixed concentration away from Sansa. In truth, he had lost the skill to refuse her anything she could possibly ask of him. It was too tangled up in the net of regrets that a litany of apologies couldn't ever fix, and somehow, even more devastating --- lay the knowledge she was able to stir him. It wasn't like he could even act on the lustful urges she inspired in the manner befitting her needs. He was no longer like other men. He wasn't...Ramsay had... A flash of guilt speared through Theon. He shouldn't even be _thinking_ about Sansa in such a light. No matter how hard he tried to make amends, a part of him would always be a little selfish. He wouldn't ever deem himself as being worthy of being held in such high regard.

His protest ran thin, though it didn't ring any less sincere.“It shouldn't be me.” Yet Theon's expression, once frustrated and sullen, appeared bordering on the edge of defeat.

“I _want_ it to be you,” Sansa insisted.

To emphasize her previously expressed desire, she brushed her lips against his in a careful caress.

He froze, exhaling harshly, as if the velvet softness of her lips had sunk like a fist into his gut. Theon yielded then, because he was too lost in his struggles, and her words _undid_ something inside of him. Tonight, just for tonight, he vowed to himself. He would drive out all thoughts of other men from her, and make sure Sansa experienced the pleasure denied to her in all her previous encounters. The look in Theon's wet, stormy eyes burrowed through Sansa, hollowing out her insides. They resembled a never-ending blur of ocean she wished nothing more than to throw herself in.

“If it's what you want,” he murmured, at last consenting --- before he leaned in and reached her mouth with his.

First they met in tenderness, which swiftly gave way to passion. She gasped a little in surprise, and Theon slid his tongue inside, tasting her for the first time in a silken, skillful glide. Sansa knew what it was like to be bruised and forcibly made pliant underneath the crushing weight of another, but nothing of the ways of men and the art of kissing. Her daydreams growing up of knights and silvery songs did little to prepare her for the future except ingrain this childish sense of yearning and want. Except, there was nothing distinctly childish about what Theon was doing. And certainly, the foolish, silly girl of her youth never held an inkling that one day she would long for the lips of Theon Greyjoy. She was overwhelmed, swamped with emotions. Time stretched into a state of nonexistence as Theon continued skillfully kissing her, and she returned his ministrations as best as she could, mimicking his movements of lips and tongue.

When they parted, she began to undress herself for him, shedding her layers like they were pieces of armor to be laid down. Theon's gaze gleamed in wonderment as fabric was pulled off, knowing that he was watching, stepping forward to unlace her dress so it fell away. Smallclothes were stripped off, and Theon’s hands followed the path his eyes traveled, taking in the expanse of her ivory skin, the leftover scars from that hellish time spent with Ramsay still etched onto it. Over and around the contour of her pale breasts, the slope of her womanly hip, he curved his palm tentatively. There had been a time where the last thing she wanted from him was to be touched. Now she was giving herself to Theon, placing her trust in him. Even breathing heavily, Theon still touched her her as though expecting his hand to pass through a glimmering mirage, a _dream_ , only made better because it was real.

“You’re so beautiful,” he declared, voice thick with praise. Theon spoke with such a gentle fervor, Sansa felt her breath hitch in anticipation. Sansa’s mind tumbled with uncertainty as he bent his head between her thighs, unshaven cheek brushing against her skin. But then she tossed her head back as he licked a stripe in a long, sensual movement, and all coherent thought fled.

The second time Theon tasted her, a white-hot wave of desire swept through Sansa’s body. A tremble moved down her slender arms, and her fingers found purchase in sandy locks as she followed her instincts and rocked her hips against Theon, anchoring him securely against her.

“Theon,” she moaned.

Theon made a strangled noise from between her thighs that sounded like a groan when he heard her say his name. He had bedded many women in the past, and hadn’t been nearly as indulgent or giving as a lover as he could have been with them; no, he had preferred to take his own fill instead. Sansa deserved better, and he resolved to give it to her. He wanted wave after wave of bliss to rule over her body, to drown out everything else beyond the walls of these chambers, if he could bloody manage it.

Glistening folds were spread apart easily as long fingers sought a particularly sensitive, pink bundle of nerves. The pressure he laved against the bud with his tongue was light at first. It became _firmer_ as he began stroking her in a series of deliberate, steady flicks.

“Oh, Theon,” he heard her gasp.

The air around them turned more charged. He lavished her cunt while she writhed deliciously below him, fingertips twining into his curls. An ache opened up inside of Theon's chest like a vast and bottomless chasm. Were he not a ruined man made of rent flesh, he knew he would have been straining from his groin against his breeches, Drowned God, he would have... Theon was well aware that he wasn't deserving of her, much less _this_ , but he lapped at her like a starving man with the rhythm he set in motion. Her gasping labored above him, brilliant red mane fanning out underneath his steadfast attentions to her clit. He flattened his palms and smoothed them up and down her thighs, kneading her breasts, wandering and mapping out every inch of satiny exposed flesh he could touch. One of his hands drifted down, hesitating on the flatness of her stomach, before resuming its journey downward and grazing the outside of her dripping heat. Sansa’s lithe muscles jumped as he guided the tip of his finger to her sopping entrance, circling lightly.

“Is this all right?” he rasped hoarsely, holding himself back and seeking her assurance. His eyes glanced up to hers, chin shining wet with her juices. Theon felt such a boiling surge of _need_ to please her. It was all he wanted to do. He had never been driven by such a singular intentness in bed, underlined by this depth of care or devotion. He had never asked a girl for permission before.

“Oh...yes, yes, more,” Sansa panted huskily, unable to quell her yearning for more contact, and he tightened one hand around her hip. Theon easily slid his finger inside, gently stretching her slick passage with his welcomed intrusion. Her inner walls constricted enticingly, molding to him. His mouth closed once more around her swollen bud, suckling and licking at it. He didn't devour her whole, or listlessly pound into her like an animal. Instead, he masterfully poured his entire being into tasting her musky-sweet flavor, pushing in first one finger, then two, stretching her with deep, penetrating back and forth thrusts. It seemed Sansa had an endless spring inside of her, and he was eager to taste and sample all she had to offer him. Theon was drunk on her, beckoned by her cries and pleas like a dehydrated sailor in a desert who had finally found a source of nourishment after going without for so long --- and maybe even a little lost. Lost in her wonderful body and the way she insistently arched up into him, torso drawn taut and tight like a bowstring.

Sansa was suddenly and intensely made aware of a building pressure, like a coiled spring. It curled up her toes, causing her legs to writhe with a mindless, renewed abandon, hips gyrating against his face. Recognizing the first signs of spasms for what they were, Theon didn't let up in stroking her clit, or pumping her with a paced, massaging friction. She closed tight and clenched around his fingers, her spine bowing, bloody perfect. _This_ was his reward. Knowing that his tongue, his lips, his fingers had been the first ones to breech this veil of human experience for her. He treasured every jolt she gave, every mouthing of his name.

He kept languidly lapping at her, even after she came, to draw out her pleasure. Were this another time or place, he would have been eager to mercilessly draw out every twitch and whimper; then again, he would always be a slightly covetous man, even if he had changed from the arrogant womanizer he once had been. Theon eased himself to the side of Sansa and encircled her in his arms, gently rubbing her skin soothingly. She melted into the warmth of his touch, readily seeking his assurance to stay by her side, to keep her whole. At least until he had to leave for battle.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he held her. It seemed to Sansa an impossibility to be so profoundly fulfilled and sated, but he had proven it to be achievable. She was glad she could experience it, but she felt a twinge of sadness. “I’m sorry I can’t...”

“You don’t have to thank me.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth, eyes filling with moisture. There was a sheen of moisture in Sansa’s own hooded eyes as their stares locked, and an unspoken calm of understanding passed in the air between them. Their lingering doubts and fears about the terrors the night would bring faded away, if only for the few moments they spent entwined together.

Theon wished he could stay with Sansa here forever. He would have, if he could.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rusty when it comes to fanfic since I tend to only write in the roleplay side of fandom, and I've never posted on here before, much less for this fandom! But I hope it was all right. Inspiration wouldn't leave me alone. I felt like they deserved a night, or however many hours, together. Going back and rewatching their scenes, I think what was most heartbreaking about portraying them was capturing how much self-loathing Theon holds for himself. 
> 
> The title comes from a line in Paper Route's "Dance On Our Graves", which I listened to while writing this.


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